Last Words
by Glo Worm
Summary: “Don’t worry Dad. At least she didn’t realize the tarantula got out”
1. Tarantula

Title: Last Words

Author: Anna-Maria

Rating: PG

Summary: "Don't worry Dad. At least she didn't realize the tarantula got out"

Seven o'clock in the evening and I've found a clean shirt and stumbled downstairs to the ironing board, the one that used to be near the television set. This was a splendid arrangement as it allowed me to shout abuse at the inanities of the presenters of the current affairs show that is on after the evening news. This doesn't improve your ironing technique but it does help you to wake up. There is nothing like bellowing "moron", "lightweight", and "wanker" full voice at the television to bring you to full consciousness.

My wife, Catherine, for reasons unstated decided that this arrangement was unsatisfactory and relocated the ironing board to a small recess behind the bar area, with the bugs. I can still see the television screen, but only just.

So this evening, I slide into this bug caged cul-de-sac with my shirt, steam and dry iron and television remote control and begin my evening. It is at this point that I realize that the shirt that I've pulled off the clothes rack is missing two buttons.

Dumb and Dumber, aka the presenters of the current affairs show, however would be along soon to brighten my evening and as I flicked the remote switch the channel changed and I was greated with the sight of a blonde woman in a low cut leotard bending forward in front of the camera.

I like blondes. My wife as a matter of fact is a blonde, but I'd have to admit that I was unprepared for this display of mammalian overflow, this soon after waking up. I moved back from the ironing board a few centimeters. "Good God", I thought to myself. As I did so, I tossed the shirt on the board, moving back a few more centimeters, just far enough to make contact with the glass shelves behind me on which was sitting the cage of one of my tarantulas.

I heard it rather than saw it. Moving to and fro on the glass shelf. "Oh please God no," I thought. Because on these shelves above the bug cages were wine glasses. Lots of wine glasses and stuck in a confined space with the ironing board, shirt and steam belching iron in front of me and shelved behind, I had nowhere to move. "Crash" went the cage. It was, I suppose only a second, perhaps two, before the first glass hit the floor and shattered into several thousand fragments. My wife appeared bleary eyed at the top of the stairs, followed shortly after by her daughter, Lindsey. She stood there for a few seconds, observing me amidst the sea of wine glasses, "This better be cleaned up by the time I'm changed", she said before making her way back to our bedroom. Lindsey however made her way down the stairs to me. "Do you have any last words?" She asked, giggling in my ear. Upon seeing the expression on my face, she placed her hand on my shoulder, and said to me comfortingly, "Don't worry Dad. At least she didn't realize the tarantula got out".

"Oh God"  


	2. The Passport

Title: Last Words (2/?)

Author: Anna-Maria

Rating: PG

Summary: "I remain unconvinced about being too far away and suspect I have uncovered a Government plot to keep, us bug lovers in the country so as not to spoil our nation's image overseas"

A/N: Ok. Instead of being separate stories, I decided to make them little ficlets. They are not directly connected to each other but they are all sort revolve around funny events in Gil Grissom's life, that haven't actually happened in the shows, but hey its fiction. All chapters are in Grissom's POV

Slowly the queue in the post office crept forward, customers staring sightlessly ahead, the occasional "next please" from the counter staff the only sound to break the silence. Bored stiff, I studied the patterns formed by dandruff on the coat of the man in front, read and re-read the form I held clutched in my hand and, convinced I had filled in all the boxes correctly, shuffled forward another few centimeters.

Tiring of the dandruff patterns, I looked at the photograph I was holding, the face of a man peering back at me whose expression suggested severe constipation. "You're not allowed to smile. They hate smiling photos", the office photographer had told me so I had been obliged by staring grimly into the camera lens. If I'd been holding a board inscribed with my name and serial number I'd have passed for a rapist sent down for 15 years with a recommendation for no parole.

This was my fault of course, for in moving from one address to another I had lost the only document that mattered. My passport.  Its not that I was planning to travel anywhere but it was reassuring to know that if the figurative wolf at the door ever did manage to climb through the figurative window, I could slip out the back of the house and make a run for the international airport.

We are all good at something and losing things happens to be my specialty. Mobile phones and stamps heading the list. One minute it was on my desk and the next it was gone but it was turned on so it was just a matter of calling myself and tracking the source of the ringing tone. "If only you could ring your passport," I thought forlornly as I dialed the number and was rewarded with the familiar ring tone.

Seconds passed as I stood and stared at my desk. I could hear it ringing but I couldn't see it. Several colleges, namely Captain Jim Brass, Greg Sanders, Sara Sidle, Nick Stokes, Warrick Brown, David Hodges and my wife Catherine, raised their eyes to watch the performance as I tossed papers off my desk, patted my pockets and threw more papers onto the floor followed by several books and a coffee cup. Hidden among the debris on my desk I found a slightly chewed chocolate-coated grasshopper, $3 in change, a tissue and a half empty packet of chewing gum, but still no phone.

It was still ringing. Everyone could hear it. A small crowed had gathered. Where was Grissom's phone? Purple faced with frustration, I reached for my reading glasses, thinking that somehow they would assist me in seeing that which remained unseen. I opened the glasses case and within lay my phone. "You're losing it," muttered a colleague as the crowd collectively shook their head and drifted away.

As I relived the experience in my mind, the dandruff flecked gentleman in front turned and stared. Apparently I had been talking to myself. Shuffle, shuffle. I was now second in line, "Next please," droned the voice. Yes! This was me! I leapt forward, smiled unconvincingly and held out my passport application. "Could you process this please," I said. The woman behind the counter went through the checklist. Yes I had my birth certificate. Yes, I had my driver's license and yes, I had my grim faced photograph. "You're to far away," she said so I moved closer to the counter. "God," I thought, "She must have terrible eyesight, the poor thing, if she can't see me standing 50cm from her nose. How does she manage to work?"

"You're rejected," she said handing me back the form. Rejected? I was American, born in Marina Del Ray. It said so on my birth certificate. How could I be rejected for a passport? Was it because I am an Entomologist? Were they now only issuing passports to people who hated bugs? "You're to far away," she repeated, this time pointing at the photograph.

"But you can see its me and this is me," I said pointing to the photo on my drivers license.

"Look," she said, placing a piece of cardboard with a hole cut in it over the photo, "Your face has to fill this space. It doesn't. You're rejected."

I stood there holding my paperwork, wanting very much to leap the counter, rip up the cardboard with the hole in it and jump up and down on the pieces. Beaten, I turned and stomped out the doorway.

I remain unconvinced about being too far away and suspect I have uncovered a Government plot to keep, us bug lovers in the country so as not to spoil our nation's image overseas.             


End file.
